For the longest time, I thought the flowers were proof he still cared.
After sixteen years of marriage, love doesn’t always look the way it does in movies. It’s not about grand gestures or surprise trips—it’s about school emails, clogged sinks, balancing budgets, and two people trying not to fall asleep on the couch by 9 p.m.
The kisses become quicker. The conversations are more functional than intimate. One day, you realize you can’t remember the last time you held hands in the car.
So when Dan walked in one Friday with a bouquet of pink tulips and that familiar, goofy grin, it was… surprising.
“For my girl,” he said, planting a kiss on my forehead.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “What did you do? Hit someone’s car?”
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Can’t I just bring my wife flowers? You deserve them, Ada.”
The kids groaned from the living room. I rolled my eyes at them, but every time I passed those tulips, something inside me softened. Maybe we weren’t done. Maybe there was still something between us, hidden beneath the noise of life.
And then it became a ritual.
Every Friday for the next few weeks, he came home with flowers—roses, tulips, lilies. Wrapped in tissue paper that was always a little uneven, handed over with the same shy, proud smile.
It felt like being seen again.
But then it started to feel different.
One Friday, as I unwrapped the latest bouquet, I noticed clumps of dirt clinging to one of the stems. The lily looked like it had been pulled straight from the ground.
“Where did you get these?” I asked, glancing at him as he loaded the dishwasher.
“That little shop near work,” he answered casually.
But wait… hadn’t he said last week it was from the gas station on Main Street? And the week before that, he’d mentioned a florist in Hillside?
Three weeks. Three different stories.
It was nothing major, just a small inconsistency, but once my mind started circling, it couldn’t stop. Every little discrepancy felt like another puzzle piece falling into place.
Maybe he was just forgetful. Maybe I was overthinking it.
But then everything tilted.
One Friday, as Dan showered, I went to put his latest bouquet in a vase. As I peeled back the paper, a folded piece of paper slipped out. Curious, I unfolded it.
Four words.
“See you next Friday.”
My heart stopped. My ears rang. There was no name, no smiley face—just those four words, which suddenly made sense of too many late nights and too many stories that didn’t add up.
Is he cheating on me?
That night, as Dan slept beside me, his breathing even and peaceful, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying our entire relationship. Our first apartment with the creaky bathroom door. Our wedding day. The way he’d danced with our fussy baby in the middle of the night so I could sleep. The jokes only we understood. The arguments. The gradual drifting apart.
Had I missed the signs? Had I ignored the things that didn’t make sense?
By morning, my eyes were swollen from crying. But muscle memory kicked in. I still made breakfast. Scraped burnt toast into the sink. Smiled when he kissed my cheek as he left for work.
“Have a good day,” I said, forcing the words out.
“You too, babe,” he replied.
The door closed behind him, and I collapsed, crying until there were no more tears.
The whole week felt like a fog. Every time his phone buzzed, I watched his face. Every “working late” text felt like a confession. The note, burned into the back of my mind, kept echoing.
By Friday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed the truth, even if it broke me.
I called in sick. Sent the kids off to school. Then, I drove to Dan’s office, parked across the street, and waited with my heart pounding in my chest.
At 2 p.m., three hours before he was supposed to finish, Dan walked out of the office, no briefcase, no sense of urgency—just a man leaving work a little early on a Friday.
I started my car and followed him.
He drove straight into a neighborhood that made my stomach drop. I recognized it immediately—the red mailbox, the wind chimes made of seashells that always clinked on still days.
Erika’s neighborhood.
Erika—the woman who had stood up at our wedding reception and drunkenly declared she was in love with my husband. The woman who’d tried to kiss him in the parking lot while I was inside hugging my grandmother goodbye.
Dan had sworn he’d cut ties with her after that. Blocked her. Deleted her number. Done.
So why was he pulling into her driveway now?
I parked down the street and watched him walk up the path to the door. My hands shook. A woman—older, with silver hair and a soft cardigan—answered the door. She smiled at him and stepped aside.
Something inside me snapped.
I didn’t think. I just acted.
I rushed up the path and rang the doorbell harder than I meant to.
The woman opened the door again. “Can I help you?” she asked gently.
“My husband just came in here,” I said, my voice shaking. “I need to know why. Who’s in this house?”
Her face softened with understanding. Not guilt. Just calm.
“He’s not cheating on you,” she said quietly. “Please… come in. You need to see for yourself.”
I didn’t understand, but I followed her inside anyway.
The house smelled like lavender and soup simmering on the stove. Family photos lined the walls—children’s smiles, graduation days, holidays. She led me into a bright living room where a hospital bed was set up by the window.
Dan sat next to the bed, reading aloud from a book.
And in that bed lay Erika.
But not the vibrant woman I remembered—the confident, flirtatious woman in the red dress.
This Erika was thin, pale, her hair cropped unevenly as though it had grown back after being shaved. She clutched a teddy bear to her chest, her eyes distant but soft.
Dan looked up when he saw me, and the book slipped from his hands with a soft thud.
“Ada…” he breathed. “I can explain.”
I could barely speak. “She’s… sick?”
The older woman nodded. “Car accident. Fourteen months ago. Severe brain injury. She has the mind of a child now. Ten, maybe younger. She doesn’t remember much of her life, but she remembers Dan. They were childhood friends. She asks for him constantly.”
My legs felt weak. I looked at Erika, unable to reconcile the woman I’d hated with the fragile, confused figure lying in front of me.
Dan stood up slowly, his eyes fixed on me. “I should’ve told you,” he said. “I was afraid you’d think something was going on… after everything that happened. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You lied,” I whispered. “You still hurt me.”
“I know,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to explain without it sounding wrong.”
I turned to Erika. She was staring at me now, her eyes soft and confused.
“You’re pretty,” she said shyly.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Thank you.”
I forced myself to ask the questions that had been tormenting me.
“The flowers,” I said. “Why were some of them dirty? Why were the stems broken? Why did you tell me three different places?”
Erika’s mother gently touched my arm. “Those are from my garden,” she said. “When I can, I cut some for him to bring to you. He told me he brings you flowers every Friday. I wanted to help.”
Dan winced. “I’m terrible with delicate things,” he admitted. “I grab them, toss them in the car, and rush off. I’m always late.”
“And the note?” I asked, still processing. “The one that said, ‘See you next Friday’?”
Erika’s mother’s eyes widened. “Oh no… that was for Dan. A reminder for him. I must have slipped it in by mistake. I’m so sorry.”
“I never saw a note,” Dan said quietly. “I just grabbed the flowers and left.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
And then, to my own surprise, I started laughing. It was shaky and unsure, but it was real. A week of dread, of thinking my marriage was falling apart, and here I was, caught in the quiet, unspoken loyalty of a man I had misunderstood.
“I thought you were having an affair,” I confessed, wiping my eyes.
Dan’s face crumpled. “Ada, no. Never. I was just trying to be there for her. She doesn’t remember much anymore. I just wanted to be someone she recognized.”
I walked over to the bed and held out my hand. Erika placed her small, cold fingers in mine and smiled.
“Will you be my friend?” she asked shyly.
“Yes,” I said, my voice breaking. “I’d like that.”
Now, Dan still visits Erika regularly. Sometimes I go with him. I bake her cookies, even though she can’t explain why they’re her favorite. Her mother always thanks us, as if we’re doing something extraordinary, but I think we’re getting as much as we give.
Yesterday, Erika asked me to